


Eli's Emo Blog

by QueenieKildare



Series: Eli's Emo Blog [1]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-05-19 10:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieKildare/pseuds/QueenieKildare
Summary: I came to Amsterdam to defend my country and right a wrong. I knew I would be unhappy here…What other place could hope to have the beauty of my homeland? But the cold and the wet have been driving me to distraction. This is intolerable.





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This too was the result of a late night chat on Discord. To those who encouraged (cough-dared-cough) me to write this…You have only yourselves to blame. 
> 
> I’ve been reliably informed that this is the most cracky-crack to ever crack. Clearly, that was a challenge I had to meet. lol. I had a stupid amount of fun writing this and it’s totally going to be a Thing. *pointed stare* You know what you did people…you know what you did. ;)

September 22, 1991

Warmer Climes

 

I came to Amsterdam to defend my country and right a wrong. I knew I would be unhappy here…What other place could hope to have the beauty of my homeland? But the cold and the wet have been driving me to distraction. This is intolerable.

In an attempt to ease my suffering, I decided to spend the day in warmer climes. So I went to Paris. I deserve a treat and the food in Paris is a decent second to the food of my beloved Israel. I’ve more than earned such an indulgence—one must do what one can to preserve ones soul after all.

 

 

 

\-----

September 23, 1991

Forever Changed

 

My life is now forever changed. You would think the food or the culture or the art would accomplish such a feat—but no! It was not the delights of Paris that have changed me—I met someone. A magnificent specimen of man crossed my path; bewitched my mind and ensnared my soul. We met at a coffee shop, and though our conversation was brief, we connected on a soul-deep level.

His eyes are the clearest blue. And his face! His jaw was chiseled from the same stone that David was made of. He is tall and dark haired and utterly captivating. I am determined to have him at all costs! My beloved is worthy of the best—and he shall have it!

Though his taste in coffee leaves something to be desired. I mean really, what man turns his nose up at espresso? Plain black coffee is fine during a stakeout and one cannot obtain a worthy bean…but when one is in a coffeeshop with superior offerings and one *ignores* those offerings…Clearly, my beloved cannot understand enough French to obtain the coffee he deserves. My heart breaks for my poor darling!

This is a complication that I did not account for. I had to leave my beloved behind so that I could complete my mission. But our parting shall only be for a short time…We shall meet again my beloved. Soon.


	2. The Hit List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this until this weekend...But I couldn't resist. This whole series just gets more and more hysterical the more I write it. Enjoy!

———, 1992

Mourning

 

Today I must break out the sack cloth and ashes. That sound you hear is the sound of me wailing my heartbreak to the world.

My beloved man bear has been taken in by this shameless hussy. A devil in human skin has ensnared my darling. My beloved has cheated on our love…and now he is marrying some pathetic American hussy. Only a devil would be named “Diane.”

I understood his need for companionship—for I cannot be with him in person but I do not desire his suffering. And my boo bear is a tactile darling and needs more hugs and fun touches than he is getting from his truly atrocious employer. Do not even get me started on this Mike. We would be here all day. I am shaking my head. Ugh.

But! My beloved has been taken in by a money grubbing home wrecker. I could have ignored the meaningless sex. A man has needs, after all. But you do not marry your orgasm friend! You thank them and send them on their way! What is he thinking!! He can do  _so_ much better than this! He  _has_ done so much better—he has me!!

Her red hair is _obviously_ fake. And do not get me started on the _rest_ of her. (Which is also clearly fake) She does not even appreciate him! Mark my words, this marriage will not last long. My darling is meant to be with me. Me. This situation must be rectified…

 

 

\-----

June 25, 1994

Today is a Day for Rejoicing!

 

I told you their marriage would not last!! My beloved is too intelligent and discerning to stay with such an obvious, plastic hussy! I Even her laugh was contrived and fake!

And I told you! I told you, that he would see through her and come back to me! And now, he is free of her! He has broken free from the shackles of his oppressive marriage and shed the cocoon of that Diane woman. (May she rot in the Dante’s hell as her insides are removed)

Yet, even during my celebration, my heart is full of woe for my beloved one. It was not enough for the plastic, she-devil to ensnare my darling. To share his love and his touches and his sexy times. No! She robbed my beloved! That damned —no, she is not even a woman—thing stole all of my darling’s money right from his own bank account! The injustice!

And to add insult to injury, robbed him! Why is this thing not imprisoned for her crimes? Why do the Americans police not serve or protect their most vulnerable people? My darling should not have had to suffer so.

But she is gone! Poof! No more will she darken my beloved’s bed. Or enjoy his time or touches. Ha! He will see now, that we are meant to be. As we have  _always_ been meant to be.

 

 

\-----

———, 1995

Ridiculousness knows no bounds

 

Ever since my beloved married that shameless hussy, I have been keeping a closer eye on his romantic liaisons. Purely for science, of course.

I only do this for my beloved’s sake. I am busy with my work for my homeland. Important work, to be sure, but work that keeps me from my beloved. I do not expect my darling to be celibate while we are apart…but after the disaster of his last relationship, I have decided that my love lacks any sense of self-preservation. Or good taste in women. I am shaking my head at his ridiculousness. Honestly.

I resent the implication that I am “stalking” my love. I am  _not_ stalking him. I am keeping track of his so that I can step in and protect him if, and most probably when, he requires rescue. My blue-eyed darling is sensitive and I will protect his delicate heart at all costs.

This brings me to my latest dilemma. My beloved has gone and gotten married. Again! And to another whore. My darling, I know you need companionship. And, I have already mentioned that I do not expect you to remain celibate…but  _must_ you insist on marrying your toys?

Your little indiscretions are for orgasms not for marrying. Either find a cuddle companion or an orgasm friend…but do not mix the two! Have you learned  _nothing_ from your last foray into matrimony? You are not meant to be with a woman. And your taste in women is frankly atrocious.

This marriage will not last any longer than the last. One way or another.

 

 

\-----

May 28, 1996

What Did I Tell You?

 

Did I not say that my darling’s latest marriage would not last? Did I not say that his taste in women is tragically atrocious? Did I not say that this latest home-wrecking, opportunistic, dishonest, lying whore would only break his poor heart? Well?

Of course I did. No one knows my beloved better than I. No one understands his sensitive, delicate heart the way I do. My poor blue-eyed fox. This wife did my baby wrong. She took him for granted….She cheated on my darling.

While I hope that this experience teaches my love a lesson…Since the  _last_ marriage did not teach him anything, I am not sure if I should hold out hope for the lesson to stick this time. At least for my beloved. His new ex-wife? She must be taught a lesson.

Hmmm. I have been reliably informed that executing this vile temptress for her unfaithful, deliberate destruction of my darling’s heart is perhaps a bit extreme. Other words were tossed around like “unethical” or “terrifying” but the idiots who used such words have since been…terminated. Who knew that so many of my co-workers had such ugly secrets? They should’ve been more careful. That is all I am saying.

This Rebecca can continue breathing. For now.

 

 

\-----

———, 1998

Lessons…These Are Things That Happen!

 

I have been out of touch with my beloved for several months. Clearly, this was an error on my part. But what could I do? I was working on a very sensitive project for my country and the assignment necessitated a complete technological blackout. Obviously, this was a miscalculation and cannot be repeated.

I mean really. What is this man thinking? He is  _not_ thinking I tell you! Not with the brain on his shoulders! Clearly, he is only thinking with his cock. And while he has a lovely cock, it is not meant to be the decision maker! Gah!

This is beyond ridiculous. My darling has learned  _nothing_ from the  _other_ two marriages that he has had. Nothing! Not a single thing! They went into one ear and _right out of the other ear_. I am beyond annoyed.

If one more person tells me that ridiculous, erroneous American saying about the third time being “the charm” I shall have to resort to extreme measures. Extreme. Bloody. Medieval measures. A torture dungeon is not out of the running. I am still considering the creation of one. Do not test me.

 

 

\-----

October 27, 1999

Early Hanukah Gift?

 

Hah! The bitch is gone and the divorce is final! Again. For the third time. Third. Time. Honestly!

And I was not even required to step in to assist the process along. This Stephanie was unable to handle my beloved. With his single-minded, patient, tactical mind. Or his large, competent hands. Or his beautiful cock…

But I digress. This whore was so narcissistic as to resent my darling doing his job. Work is important, it helps one to feel accomplished and of use. And this floozie could not understand that! She incited many arguments about my beloved working “too much.” As if such a thing is even possible. Pah!

Clearly, she felt threatened by his clear superiority and could not handle his success. He caught a serial killer; which is no mean feat. I am tempted to send this Boone flowers. I could not have orchestrated such circumstances any better. Boone lived up to his name; he was a well-timed boon to me. My poor heart was having a hard time accepting these circumstances.

Today is a day for celebration my friends! Celebration! Fine food! Costly libations! Celebrate with me.

Though, I am slightly disappointed that I was not fast enough nor required to assist this Stephanie out the door. Bittersweet my friends. Very bittersweet.


	3. Surrounded by Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is a day of mixed feelings. I have long been saying that my beloved man-bear lacks any kind of competent assistance. One needs only look at how long his partners, and I use that term very loosely, last in the field. One pathetic man only lasted 6 hours! 6! Hours!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All errors are my own (beta what beta). And yes, it says "baboon." That's not a typo. That was a deliberate choice. Enjoy! :)

December 12, 1992  
I Have Nothing

 

Today is a day of mixed feelings. I have long been saying that my beloved man-bear lacks any kind of competent assistance. One needs only look at how long his partners, and I use that term *very* loosely, last in the field. One pathetic man only lasted 6 hours! 6! Hours! I recognize that the rest of the world lacks the training and the standards of my Mossad, but truly what in the world is America coming to? It is little wonder that they have such problems with crime. If they wanted to have less criminals, they would implement better standards for joining their law enforcement agencies. That is all I am saying.

The last Chief Medical Examiner that worked for my darling’s NCIS was something of an idiot, if I am at all honest. The man lacked a spine. He lacked conviction and fortitude. He would have been better off in some useless field like postal delivery. How he even got hired at any law enforcement agency, even NCIS, is truly baffling. The man was afraid of his own shadow for Israel’s sake. He could not even look my honey bear in the face much less his beautiful blue eyes. What kind of self-respecting man cannot even manage eye contact?

And now that that incompetent baboon has left, they have hired some crazy man who prefers to be called “Ducky” as if he is a water fowl. If this Ducky only had poor naming choices to call his own, I would be able to ignore it. But to add insult to the injury, the man is more long-winded than Yitzhak Rabin.

And if  _that_ were not bad enough, he is determined to create a “bromance” with my boo-bear. As if this Duck can be an adequate substitute for our bond. My darling needs no bromance—he has me!

I must research this "bromance" further. If it is as the name suggests, then this Duck-man must be dealt with--and swiftly.

This Ducky man, I fear, is truly insane. Why else would he insist on speaking to the dead as if they can reply? They cannot hear you, crazy Duck man. They cannot hear you.

I truly fear for my beloved’s sanity.

 

\-----

July 8, 1994  
You Cannot Be Serious

 

Long have I been complaining about my beloved’s lack of adequate backup. He is not meant to be alone, my darling. And it is foolishness to ask such an esteemed, competent, diligent investigator to work alone. Do they  _want_ my darling to die?! These. People. Honestly.

I may have, perhaps, planted some seeds that my beloved is excellent and deserves a partner…and a prestigious position. Who can say what politicians will listen to when they are drunk and have some pretty, disposable thing in their lap? Not I.

Now my darling has a partner. Granted, he is not  _much_ of a partner. But we all must start somewhere, I suppose. He certainly lacks the skills of my darling man-bear. But canon fodder is always necessary no matter your field of battle. And now my darling should be able to throw this Stanley at any adversaries to buy himself enough time to get away. Or at least to get to a better covered position to remove them from the field.

What kind of a name is Stanley anyway? Americans regularly perplex me. Were his parents high when they named him? This is not a strong name. I am skeptical of the medical practices these American doctors perform. Do they drug laboring mothers so severely that they are incapable of intelligent thought, or _any_ thought? And the fathers must be similarly incapacitated. Why else would there be so many ridiculously named children? Denial is not, apparently just the name for a river in Egypt. I shudder to hear such things. Truly.

In this Stanley’s favor is his complete and utter lack of sexual interest in my beloved. It seems that, along with his unfortunate name, he is tragically straight. May he lure conniving whores away from my darling. Though I am sure  _his_ cock is not nearly so beautiful as my man-bears. Who can compete with perfection?

I have low expectations from this Stanley. But I shall wait and see what happens. If I am lucky, he will learn and learn quickly how best to serve and protect my beloved. Though I do not hold much faith in luck. So while I hope for such an occurrence, I expect him not to last long. He too will eventually cave under his own mediocrity in the face of my beloved’s acclaim. Time, it seems, will have to tell.

 

\-----

September 2, 1996  
Good Riddance!

 

I have despised my beloved’s trainer at NCIS almost since their first interaction. The man lacks class, intelligence, and respect for my beloved. Honestly! What sort of trainer smacks their trainee on the head? The man is barbaric! If he were not so well connected, or at least so easily identifiable, I would have him dealt with. It seems luck is with this Michael for the moment.

He also has the most unfortunate taste in clothing and facial hair. Truly, it is very tragic. I credit this Michael with my darling’s insistence on cutting his hair himself. And shopping from some kind of second-hand store for elderly American men. My beloved is a magnificent specimen of male yet you would never know if from the way he dresses. It is most cliche. And utterly, horrifyingly, tragic. My poor heart _breaks_ to see him so clothed. 

This Sears is clearly only fit for the poor, destitute, and the average, unremarkable plebeian American. Their color choices are disgusting. Their choices for material are devastating. And the clothes are sewn by  _machine_. Clearly, this is why they are so poorly made and unflattering. This is a store for the ugly and shamed to give their patronage. Beloved, let me save you! Or at least, let me save myself from this agony. Either or.

Yet this is a day for the history books! Michael, the pestilence on my life, is _retiring_. Ha! True agents do not _retire_. This shows that he is weak and stupid. Obviously. 

I did not think the man capable of such sophisticated thought. I am pleasantly surprised to be so wrong. Who knew the man had a modicum of self-preservation left in his mangy hide?

No longer will he darken the door of my love. My man-bear is now free to work without having to suffer through the stupidity of such a _superior_! To shine even brighter now that he will no longer be held back by such vapid mediocrity. My snuggle-bear will be setting records and making a name for himself, mark my words. The world will see what he is capable of! Take  _that_ you insipid weasel! Ha!

I do not wish you well, Michael. But I am pleased to see the back of you. Though, please do yourself and the rest of the world a favor and take care of your unfortunate backside. Your ass is tragic. Watching you walk away is nigh unbearable.


	4. Here We Go Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought the Duck man was the worst staffing choice that NCIS could make, then prepare yourself, my friends. Today I have learned that the Duck man is the *least* of NCIS’ problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome

March 28, 1999  
Speechless

 

If you thought the Duck man was the worst staffing choice that NCIS could make, then prepare yourself, my friends. Today I have learned that the Duck man is the  _least_ of NCIS’ problems.

They hired a  _goth_ to be their Chief Forensic Scientist. This Abby may be the most unprofessional woman I have ever come across. And since I have been to _many_ countries in many situations, that is saying something.

I cannot for the life of me understand what they are attempting to do. She wears mini-skirts and platform combat boots to work. Platform. Combat. Boots. What will the Americans come up with next? Screen doors for submarines? Lipstick for domesticated farm animals? Gah!

This is an outrage! This Abby has taken to throwing herself at my man-bear. _My_ beloved darling. She is preying upon his good nature and his soft spot for women. She is shrewd, this Abby. Very shrewd. I would applaud her technique if it were not being implemented on my beloved.

If she were Israeli, I would recruit her to Mossad. We can always use more canon fodder. Besides, honey traps are not so easy to come by anymore, you know. People get so touchy about being asked to seduce a target these days. What is the world coming to, I ask you?

She has nicknamed my man-bear  _her_ silver fox. After extensive research, I am forced to admit that this is an accurate descriptor of my darling. He is indeed a _silver fox._ But her attempts to possess him are troublesome. Obviously, he does not see her in a romantic light, luckily for her, but her insistence of special treatment and inserting herself into his life concern me.

As my beloved silver-bear has already proven, he has truly atrocious taste in women…And the right whore under the right circumstances are enough to entice him into matrimony. One need look no further than the demon woman Diane or the backstabbing, cheating whore Stephanie to see that my beloved has been led around by his most exquisite cock on more than one occasion.

Though my man-bear has, so far, not fallen for her charms, few though they may be, I am still concerned. My beloved may have Rules about orgasms with co-workers, but his liaison with Jennifer shows that he is not above ignoring his own rules. My darling  _still_  has not learned that one’s orgasm friend is not worthy of becoming one’s life partner. A lover’s work is never done. This is _most_ frustrating.

As to this Abby… I would dearly love to rip out all of her organs and feed them to her. That is a pleasant thought.

If only I did not have to protect my beloved so stringently, I would be able to get more done and, thus, hasten our reunion. Alas, my beloved is too skilled a lover for this to be possible; his cock too enticing.

Though how so many of these women are discovering just _how_ enticing his cock is perturbs me. I cannot imagine that my darling just whips his cock out at any opportunity. Perhaps they are following him into the toilet? Further research is obviously needed…

If this Abby does not tread lightly, I will be forced to take action. My beloved man-bear must be protected, even from himself. I have many resources available to me now that I did not have before. I will see who is ready for a promotion.

I am watching you Abby…

 

\-----

April 15, 2000  
What Did I Say?

 

I am not surprised that Stanley could not perform under my beloved. Though he _did_ last longer than I thought he would, I suppose his stamina is _slightly_ admirable even if it is not impressive. At five years, he clearly could tell that he did not measure up to my beloved.

Am I surprised? No, I saw this coming, if you will recall. I knew that, with a name like Stanley, he would be unable to perform for long. Even his _name_  speaks of weakness and, clearly, his actions display his fear and inadequacy. Apparently, this Stanley was having performance issues in more areas of his life than just his work…

Well, you were adequate to your task, Stanley. I will give you that. You managed to keep my beloved from death. I have been informed that you actually learned something from my daring. Congratulations.

Though your transferring to another position in NCIS does leave one with questions as to your intelligence. At least you managed to be of use for a time, however brief that time was. Though your esthetics leave much to be desired. I am just saying.

 

\----- 

June 15, 2001  
What Have We Here?

 

Well well well. My beloved travels quite frequently for his abysmal employment. And he spends some time undercover, his favorite part of the job if his behavior is anything to go off of. (My darling only makes that twinkle-eyed stare if he is enjoying himself. _Really_  enjoying himself.)

So my man-bear dressing even _worse_  and going undercover in Baltimore, was not a surprise. Well, his sartorial choices were horrifyingly surprising but his assignment was not. Truly, I despair that my grizzly-man will _ever_  learn how to properly dress himself. Beloved, you catch more idiots with honey than with rotting grapes. Honestly.

While my grizzly-love was in Baltimore, he came across a young, cocky, bubbly-assed detective. If my heart were not already spoken for, this fine ass may have been enough to keep my attention for a few minutes. Not long, of course. This Anthony is pretty but he lacks that certain _je ne sais quoi_ to hold my attention. (The strength, poise, steely blue eyes, and beautiful thick cock of my man-bear.) That I would probably break such a pretty young thing is entirely beside the point. I am looking at you Uri. Keep your ridiculous opinions to yourself.

I hope attractiveness is an indication of intelligence and competency because I have high hopes for this Anthony.

Perhaps some—surveillance countermeasures—should be enacted…To make sure that he is a worthy partner for my beloved. Of course.

And I do not have to worry about my darling fuzzy-bear going after this Anthony romantically. He seems more fond than horny when around him. I will admit, that Stanley was not the best trial case for whether or not my man-bear would go after his male co-workers romantically—the boy was weak as water. I will remain vigilant just in case.

I must admit, though, that I do not believe his experience as a _cop_  will serve him overmuch as the partner of my intrepid man-bear. My snuggle-puss is more clever and circumspect than some lowly _cop_. I shudder to think of the bad habits young Anthony has picked up.

It turns out that, after some research, Anthony has some decent skills after all. I would not have pegged him as having the patience or skill to go undercover; much less pull it off convincingly. Though he has the looks for such an endeavor, he seems too immature to pull such a thing off. Clearly, this is wrong.

This situation bears further... study.


	5. Interlude the First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony has been working one on one with my beloved for the past two months now, give or take, and I must say that they are developing an interesting dynamic. Anthony is quite the people person and successfully runs interference with all the plebeians that my man-bear is too amazing to have to deal with.

August 2, 2001  
Wait And See Is A Valid Approach

 

Anthony has been working one on one with my beloved for the past two months now, give or take, and I must say that they are developing an interesting dynamic. Anthony is quite the people person and successfully runs interference with all the plebeians that my man-bear is too amazing to have to deal with.

With all the fucking he does, one would think he would be permanently suffering from blood loss. Thankfully, this does not seem to be the case.

Though Anthony could spend  _less_ time with his orgasm friends and  _more_ time with my beloved. I mean honestly. He is surrounded with the magnificence of my beloved on a daily basis and yet he seems to be completely immune to my man-bear’s charms!

It is most frustrating!

It is also saving his life. I am not above rending a young interloper limb from limb in the protection of my man-bear. My beloved has a very delicate disposition and must be protected…even from himself.

You are very fortunate, Anthony. Very fortunate indeed.

 

  
\-----  
October 25, 2001  
It Is Almost Comical

 

If I did not know better, I would think that my beloved is the protagonist of a comedy; a tragically erroneous comedy, but a comedy nonetheless. I despair for my beloved…and my own sanity.

To compound matters, my Ziva came back from yet _another_ mission where she failed to actually hit a target. At. All. If she were not so successful at seducing her targets, I would wash my hands of her. Honestly, this has gone from tragic to just embarrassing. No child of mine should be so incompetent with a weapon.

Sure, give her a knife and someone around her size and she is deadly enough. But deadly _enough_ is not good enough. I know her eyes are in optimal working order—I have sent her to an optometrist several times for confirmation.  _Sigh._  Fine, I have sent her to have her eyes checked eleven times. Must you be so annoying, Abram?

The point, is that I have had it independently verified by no less than six separate optometrists that her eyes are fine. She has better than 20/20 vision. And yet.

My Ziva cannot hit the broad side of a barn, to quote the Americans. She cannot hit _anything._ Unless, of course, she hits it completely by accident.

If she were not so skilled at sex I would have no use for her and would have long since sent her back to her mother. I mean really. I have a reputation to maintain. Gah!

Her only saving grace is that she seems to be capable as a handler. I suppose it really is true that those who cannot do instruct others. Or in her case, critique others to the point of homicide; po-tayto po-tahto.

But I digress. My beloved has been working with this new boy toy of his for the four months. And I will admit, they seem to have hit their stride; and made more than a few of the American agencies furious with their closure rate. The world is now being forced to admit to my fuzzy-bear’s clear superiority. To quote the young people, suck it Hassan!

_Ahem._  Anyway, things seem to be going well for my love. Or they _were_ until his latest case. And really, just _how many times_ must my silver-bear get screwed by his orgasm buddies? It is as if he is cursed to see a red headed woman and lose all ability to think.

A gross stereotype. Not all men are walking hard ons. I am a perfect example. I am fully capable of seeing attractive women and not losing all blood flow to my brain. Why is it that my man-bear is not so capable? I suppose it is only logical for my beloved to have some flaw. Perfection would be annoying and he would be long dead by now if such were the case.

But must he? _Must_ he?

My darling, your cock is lovely. Orgasms are wonderful stress relievers…For the love of sanity, buy a prostitute for fucks sake and be done with it. You are not allowed to marry another whore. I forbid it.

I am putting my foot down, beloved. My foot is down.

 

  
\-----  
November 30, 2001  
Adoption Is Still An Option, Yes?

 

  
After the loss of my Tali’s death, I resigned myself to the two children I had left. Ari is…capable if not entirely useful. Ziva. Ah, Ziva. She has her uses. But truly, those uses are few and far between.

Between the two of them, I am convinced that they _desire_ to kill me.

Against my better judgement, I sent Ari to England for medical school. Though ultimately useless, I was willing to indulge his insipid desire for independence. Provided, of course, he repaid my generosity with obedience.

But no, of course my headstrong, stubborn, mule-headed, idiot boy child could not do so.

_Sigh._  And to make matters worse, Ziva has gotten it into her head to help him along! Who told her she could attempt to use her meager intelligence in such a way? She cannot afford to think for herself; she is always making bad decisions.

Is obedience really too much to ask for?

If that were not bad enough I have had to suffer through not one but  _two_  pregnancy scares. Ari I can understand, as my beloved has shown on multiple occasions, it is difficult if not impossible for virile, young men to think when all of their blood is in their cock.

But Ziva? Does she not have a _routine_ of taking her birth control _daily?_ Do I not send her to the finest Mossad doctors before and after each and every mission? Truly, I despair. The wrong daughter died.

Tali was never so obstinate.

 

  
\-----  
January 4, 2002  
What Is This?

 

For a short while, I thought my beloved might have been taken in by his new boy. For truly, Anthony has a rather stellar ass—even if the rest of him tends to leave something to be desired. But it seems my caution was for nought.

My silver-bear has just adopted the attractive youth as a surrogate son.

This I find acceptable. With someone to focus on, my beloved will stop thinking with his, admittedly beautiful, cock. And this bond will only serve to bring them closer and make them more protective of one another.

I could not have planned it better myself.

Such things cannot be forced, after all. They must be organic. I should know, I have _many_ failed attempts to draw from.

Truly, this is the best possible outcome for me. My beloved gets to build a family for himself. I am not forced to raise _yet another_  child.  _Shudder._ And I only have to deal with a fully functioning adult.

No rambunctious toddlers or “independent” teenagers in sight. Yes, this is the best outcome. I am tempted to send Anthony a fruit basket. Perhaps flowers?

He has proven himself competent at what my beloved has desired to teach him. And he is a crack shot—if only I could get him to teach Ziva. Yes, I am pleased with this Anthony. Truly, the best possible scenario has come about. I can now sit back and enjoy the entertainment…And possibly pay my darling a surprise visit; he is not the only one who needs some good orgasms.

 


	6. It's January...What now??

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate the fuck out of everyone I work with. No, I mean seriously.

January 12, 2002  
Why Me??

 

I hate the fuck out of everyone I work with. No, I mean seriously. I spent the entire day stuck in meetings with a bunch of idiots; the whole lot of them.

The day from Hell started with a call from the director _ruining_  my breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, my friends. And mine was _ruined_.

Some plebeian moron decided to break protocol and approach their intended target…in a foreign country. _Without_  authorization. They did not even have a plan for fucks sake.

How am I surrounded by idiots, I ask you? _Stop laughing_  Asa. Stop it!

The director of an intelligence agency is incapable of tying his own shoes. He is incompetent and lacks conviction and, more importantly, a backbone. Instead of managing the situation and following the _many contingency plans we have in place for these situations_  he just ran around sweating and swearing and just generally being uncouth and stupid.

And this is the man I work for.

And don’t get me started on the rest of the day!

I went from a three hour meeting which was more of a planning session for dealing with the fallout right to another crisis. Six agents missed their scheduled check-in. Which was a disaster as they were actually useful agents. Dealing with that whole situation took the better part of the rest of the day.

I had whining agents, clingy children—thank you Ziva, that does not help. Put on your big girl panties—or just panties I do not care and I do not want to know—and do your fucking job already. Or _else_. I am serious here Ziva. I am looking at you.

And to make matters worse, my favorite craft shop was _closed_. I could not even pick up my usual order of yarn! My _yarn_. What is this world coming to?! Why is nothing sacred? All a man needs are competent minions and good, quality yarn. And beautiful cock from his beloved man-bear, but that is beyond the common plebeian man. Beautiful cock from a devastatingly hot man-bear only comes along once—like a growly, sparkly unicorn. And he is taken, thank you very much.

Why is _no one_  capable of doing their duty without needing to have their hand held? I have important work to do! Yaseuf! Stop lurking on my blog! This is my space! Mine! Go away and bother someone else you fucking troll!

_Ahem_.

As I was saying, my most favorite yarn store was closed. There was no “going out of business” warning. One day they were open and the next they were closed. Poof! They were gone. This is unacceptable. I ask for so little. I _deserve_  a nice, cozy, warm yarn shop with all the best, prettiest yarns. I deserve the pretty things damn it!

So I decided that I needed to do something about the situation. And I was feeling vindictive. Yes, it even happens to me. _No_  it is _not_  my default state of being. Honestly.

I tracked down the owners of the shop and had a polite chat with them about why they closed down. It turned out that they were ex-mafioso brothers who were hiding out from their parents who did not approve of their true love. But a cousin, twice removed from the mother’s side, had come into the shop and things just went to hell from there.

I kid you not. Truth truly is stranger than fiction, my friends. Truly.

Well, needless to say, I spent many long hours extolling my fury at their cowardly retreat; hours, my friends. And then I offered to take care of matters in return for them reopening the shop. They agreed with haste.

And so I went to pay the unfortunate cousin a visit and _explain_  why they had made an error. The cousin begged for the opportunity to go home and forget the entire encounter…and after much deliberation I agreed to let them leave after I had had a chance to work off some of my anger.

It turned into a most productive evening. The next time such a situation occurs, I shall have to take some trainees with me. The chance to learn _enhanced_ interrogation techniques at the feet of a Master does not come along very often. My people should be made to grasp such chances with both hands like their very lives depend on it…

They very well might.

 

\-----

January 19, 2002  
Despair Is Looking Like a Nice Vacation Spot

 

I adore my beloved. I have enumerated the many ways in which my darling is much beloved, and well endowed, on numerous occasions. Yes, Grant I do not need you to remind me. Go alphabetize the file room… _Again_.

Why can my children not follow my example? If Ziva brings home one more idiot, I will be forced to take drastic action for the sake of my sanity. And do not get me started on Ari! That little shit seems intent on screwing his way through all the whores. Normally, this would not be an issue; I try not to judge and whores have many uses. But this is beyond the pale! He does not just exchange orgasms with them, oh no, he has to parade them around my colleagues and take them to public places…In Europe.  _And spending my money to do so_. I have a reputation to maintain you little shit stain. Stop thinking with your cock and  _do your job_.

Honestly, I do not know why I have not just cleaned the slate, so to speak, and started over. It was not difficult to procure these children, surely it would not be difficult to procure better behaved replacements.

But there was an upside to my misery, my beloved, darling man-bear came to Europe for a case! Ha! Naturally, I took the opportunity to grab the bull by his horn. And so I was able to run across my beloved. We had a _most_  pleasant conversation regarding cleanup.

Sadly, before our conversation was able to lead to happy orgasm time, the men I was hunting and the men my beloved was hunting crashed out little date. I freely admit that I was most put out. I was, perhaps, a little rougher with the hooligans than was strictly necessary. But they are not in a place to complain and I have no reason to complain—they were excellent means by which I was able to exercise my frustration. I was not required to bring them in hale or whole anyway. I did the world a favor. Such scum belongs at the bottom of a hole in the ground, at best.

They informed me that they regret _all_  their life choices.

 

\-----

January 25, 2002  
Decisions…Decisions…

 

My darling seems to be quite pleased with his Anthony. This pleases me greatly. They make a most attractive team, and they are effective as well so we all win. It helps, of course, that my man-bear tends to infuriate most, if not all, American and European law enforcement agencies.

The American CIA in particular have a — what is the phrase, hate on? — for my man-bear. He takes great pleasure in ruining their operations at any and every opportunity.

Why, just this week, my man-bear worked a case involving the deaths of several Navy sailors that had strong ties to the CIA and an ongoing operation of theirs. Something inane involving guns and smuggling…Truly, I was not very interested in the details. The only details that matter to me involve my beloved and his growly, forceful competence.

Do not get me started on the thigh holsters.

I did not know that thigh holsters could be so arousing…or sexy. Before yesterday, I would not have classed thigh holsters as anything remotely on the level of sexiness. But I was _wrong_. Oh, how wrong I was. Thigh holsters are a gift from God and I bless the man who created them.

My beloved does not typically wear a single thigh holster, much less two of them. But he did. And they did marvelous things for his gorgeous cock. Oh, my friends, the things those thigh holsters did for his cock. They were like glowing, neon signs leading straight to heaven. One could not help but stare.

Even the YouTubers agree with me. A short video of my beloved wearing his thigh holsters was posted to the YouTube, by a completely anonymous person, and all of the comments are about how hot and sexy they make him look. His approval rating went through the _roof_. I hear that fan mail may have even been sent in to NCIS for him.

Truly, whatever genius soul came up with such a fantastic invention deserves to be immortalized, perhaps in song. No, an international holiday should be announced in their honor. A day where everyone the world over celebrates thigh holsters and what they do for a man…Perhaps one must participate in such a holiday by wearing thigh holsters the entire day?

Do you think the U.N. would be open to such a suggestion? This bears researching…

 

\-----

January 30, 2002  
I Regret Nothing

 

I was recently sent out on a ridiculous assignment; ridiculous and pointless and just generally infuriating. It took me away from my man-bear! It took me away from my latest project. I am _most_  displeased.

So there I was, after a fourteen hour flight, slugging my way through a torrential downpour to a small, seedy back alley bar to wait for my contact…Only for them to not. show. up.

Naturally, I found this behavior to be unacceptable and completely infuriating. I made it my mission to teach this rude asshole a life lesson he would never forgot. But this first required me to find the asshole first.

Thus I began my search.

I traversed so many seedy establishments and questioned a frankly ridiculous number of greedy, homeless busybodies. I talked and I questioned and I waited. I was very patient. Shut *up* Rasul. I _was_.

Thus, after _four_  days of work—my efforts were rewarded. I had a name. I had a description. I knew their favorite haunts, drinks, and even their preferred brand of toilet paper. There was _nothing_  I did not know about this idiot.

Then I laid my trap. Of course, I had already completed my assignment by this point. But the spirit of the matter had to be dealt with. I detest loose ends. You cannot see it, but I am grinning.

I was quite brilliant, if I do say so myself.

Like clockwork, the idiot walked right into my trap. Caught, like a useless fly in my web of intrigue. Hoist on his own damn petard. Karma. Poetry. Take your pick, they’re all accurate.

There were tears. There was blubbering. There was begging. There may have been a slightly large amount of blood.

He too regretted _all_  his life choices.

He also promised that he would make it up to me.

It pays to have minions. Always remember that, my friends. Never look a gift Minion in the mouth. One because you never know where that mouth has been…And two because you now own that Minion and delegation is your friend.

You can never have too many Minions.


	7. All the Protestations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valentine's Day comes...and then goes.

February 14, 2002  
I Hate Life and Everyone In It

 

  
All of my plans… _Ruined._

That is right my friends, I had _plans._

Glorious, dedicated, intricate, lovely plans. For the absurd American “holiday” Valentine’s Day.

I admit, normally I do not participate in such incipient and degrading commercialization. I do not believe in participating in such an obviously manufactured holiday designed to perpetuate the greeting card industry and sell chocolate. As if chocolate companies need any assistance selling their wares. Really.

But I made an exception this time.

I tracked my beloved man-bear’s schedule. I fixed my own schedule. I had my private plane stocked and made ready. I sent my idiotic children on two completely separate missions across the globe from one another. My minions were briefed on my expectations during my absence. Everything was set and ready for my absence.

And it was all for fucking nothing.

Someone is going to pay and pay  _dearly_ for this.

My plans were simple. I would just happen to appear at my beloved’s most favored diner during his customary dinner time. I knew, of course, that he would not have a case because I had *planned that shit down to the last detail* and my source assured me that it would be taken care of.

And I had no reason to doubt my source seeing as their continued good health was dependent on their success. I am a lenient man, but even I have limits.

I arranged for my man-bear to wear my most favorite of his clothes. He does look quite _dashing_  in ice blue. Admittedly, this took some doing. My beloved is quite pleasantly paranoid. And he keeps track of his personal belongings with aplomb. But I persevered and accomplished my self-appointed mission.

He would wear the jeans that were made to cup his delectable ass, the shirt that I sent him that brings out the ice in his eyes and appropriate footwear. I could barely wait to see the efforts of my labors.

And to labor with my efforts. I particularly could not wait to pay homage to my beloved’s most beautiful of cocks. It promised to be a most memorable occasion. I salivate just _thinking_ of it.

I offered the diner owner an appropriate sum to set out candles at the tables for the event. Shut it, Zoe. It was not bribery—it was monetary compensation!!

I even _provided_ the candles. She was kind enough to tell me which booth my beloved favors when he dines at her establishment. Not that I did not already know this, but independent confirmation is always a worth addition.

I asked her to hide my man-bear’s most favorite of meals in her kitchen and even showed her what temperature to heat it up to—and how to do so.

I leave _nothing_  to chance when I am at all able.

So the stage was set. The players had their marching orders. Everything had been arranged in a most organized fashion.

And then my fucking children had to fucking _think_  and _ruin everything!_

 

It started with Ari.

It _always_ starts with Ari.

_Sigh_

He decided that this would be the perfect, most amazing of times to use the brain he was born with. Not that he used it in its intended fashion. Oh, no. He decided that he was too good for the task I had appointed to him and that he would “tweak” his task to suit himself.

Three solid months of planning were ruined. _Four_  different agents were killed and my idiot of a son almost blew his cover.

What brought this about you ask?

The idiot became pussy blind.

Yes, he threw away over three months of work from over a dozen different agents so he could fuck his target and get caught doing it. Because fucking a married woman is not satisfying if her husband and twenty of his closest friends do not know you are fucking her.

Quite literally. (Pun intended.)

Because he is an idiot and believes himself above paid service.

I have rolled my eyes so hard I believe I have seen the face of God.

He could not keep his dick to himself. His hand was, apparently, no longer good enough. His _cover_  was no longer important. _My orders no longer mattered._

Once I no longer desire to tear my insipid, moron of a son into his component parts I will begin his… _discipline._

I have been reliably informed that filicide is in fact a crime. No matter if the filicide is most justly deserved.

I am _not_  pouting, David! _You’re_  pouting!!

 

Which brings me to my mentally challenged daughter, Ziva.

_Sigh_

I have known for quite some time that Ziva is not cut out for thinking. When Ziva thinks, she makes the most horrendous decisions.

She is much too literal to be anything more than a foot soldier.

Eight different trainers, aside from myself, all have reached the exact same conclusion.

But not everyone can be a genius like myself. Or competent, capable and authoritative like my man-bear.

But I digress.

Ziva must have the entirety of his mission laid out for her…in explicit detail. She does not function well with room to maneuver. She does not think well on her feet. She does not think well on her back either. Which caused much despair in her trainers. Honestly. She received points for enthusiasm—when she could muster any up—but she lost points for being as engaged and imaginative as a blow up doll. One of her trainers is still in therapy. I did not ask and I _still_  do not want to know. His loss is greatly felt. He was one of our best trainers.

_A moment of silence for our lost brother…_

She performs admirably, if mediocrely, at seduction assignments. So long as her targets do not want anything more strenuous than straight vanilla sex and she is not required to think. It blows my exceptional mind that a child of _mine_  can be so terrible at seduction.

Ziva is as subtle as a nuclear bomb.

Which is to say that she is not subtle _at. all._

It is a good thing her poor performance does not affect my own reputation as a skilled and exceptional lover. Otherwise I would relegate my wayward progeny to the depths of the filing room and she would never see another field assignment again.

I do not deny that it still smarts though. I cannot understand where I went wrong with her.

I had given Ziva an easy assignment. She was to seduce a boring, middle class American and keep his attention away from my operative for two days.

That is it. Two. Days.

Surely that is not such a difficult task to perform?

I had my minions prepare her luggage so that she would not be mentally taxed with deciding what wardrobe to take with her. She was prepared with her backstopping, should she need it. She was given ample currency, the schedule for her target…And fucking _pictures of her target_ and sent on her way.

I all but seduced the man for her.

_And she still fucked it up!_

That is right. She fucked the entire operation up.

First she refused to let the driver take her to the airport.

Her driving caused an accident that resulted in the deaths of five people.

This, of course, caused her to miss her flight entirely.

Which means she did not make her scheduled check-in.

This could have been overcome if she had merely followed the plan that had been laid out for her (both before *and* after her screw ups). But she engaged her brain, such as it is, and decided that she would decide on a course of seduction once she had spoken with the target.

Which leads me to the most painful portion of Ziva’s fuck up.

She seduced the wrong man.

Yes, after being shown an entire dossier on her target complete with over a dozen pictures, she seduced the wrong man.

Her excuse?

The dossier was compiled by an incompetent profiler and she deduced from the man’s body language and a short three minute conversation that she had been sent to seduce the wrong man.

Why, you may ask?

Well, because the man told her his name was different from the name on the dossier.

Yes, she decided that she’d been sent after the wrong man because he gave her a false name.

I am truly cursed.

I have not yet been able to determine what great sin I have committed to deserve the children I have been saddled with…but it must be something truly heinous. Why else would I be tormented like this?

A son that cannot think past his cock.

A daughter that cannot think at all.

_Sigh_

Someone is going to die _screaming_  for this. Mark my words, the guilty party will pay _dearly_  for this.

And my idiotic children will remember their bootcamp-esque training days with _fondness_  when I am finished with them.

 

This brings me back to my Plans…

My source did as requested.

My man-bear and his young assistant were taken off the rotation of cases for the day.

Everything at the diner and with his sartorial accoutrements were handled.

And then the shit hit the fan, as the Americans say.

On top of the cluster fuck that my progeny created, the director of NCIS missed the memo, as it were, and decided to _personally assign my man-bear to a case_  because the gods damned son of a whoring jackal Secretary of the Navy decided he wanted my man-bear on the case.

What. The. _Actual_. Fuck.

Yes, Assam, I know the son of a whoring monkey could read this and I do not care! Relations between Israel and America are not dependent on my relationship with such an idiot! No! _Stop laughing!!_ I mean it damn it!

Anyway, as I was saying…

My man-bear was stuck working a case. And he is so dedicated to his justice that he did not leave the office for three straight days.

And so I missed my opportunity for Where Have You Been All This Time sex.

I am most vexed.

And very frustrated. I have been reduced to hitting up an orgasm friend. Who does not have _nearly_  as beautiful a cock as my beloved.

I hate everything.


	8. The Ides of March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March comes...and Eli happens. Eli happens all over the fucking place. Geez.

March 17, 2002

For the Love of Sanity & All Her Wacky Sisters…

 

Greetings, my friends. I return to you now, after my trek through Hell.

 

Yes, you read that correctly. I did, indeed, say Hell.

 

For that can be the only comparison for the last month of my life.

 

A month I cannot get back. Time that has been lost. Poof! A part of my life that has been lost to the flow of time. Never to be spoken or heard from again.

 

Like dust…in the wind.

 

Why am I so maudlin?

 

Well, I am glad you have asked! If I must suffer, then it seems only fair for the world to suffer with me.

 

I have spent the last month cleaning up the mess my children made on The Day We Do Not Name.

 

Yes, that is right. I shall never speak the name of that most wretched of days. The day my dream of romance on the most over-commercialized, stupidly capitalism generated, not-really-a-holiday-but-we-will-make-you-pay-for-it day of the year.

 

They should have left The Day We Do Not Name as a fertility festival. At least the pagan hooligans had the right idea. A day dedicated to having sex, talking about sex, celebrating sex, and having _more_ sex. That is the kind of day that I can get behind celebrating.

 

Perhaps throw in a ritual “kidnapping” for flavor.

 

Or, if ritual kidnapping is not your particular cup of tea, then mass, public orgies. An orgy would have been lovely.

 

Ahem.

 

I have spoken at length of the stupidity that is somehow tied to my genetics. Yes, the Idiot Twins sprung from my loins…But they clearly did not get their intelligence from _me._ Their mothers must have dropped them on their heads when they were infants. That can be the only explanation for their clear brain damage.

 

Or they could be changeling children left behind after my _real_ children were kidnapped, for real, by magically mythical beings of power. I could live with changelings. Truly.

 

One can only hope. And, as the Americans say, hope springs eternal.

 

But this brings me to the meat on the bone here. The fog on the lake, as it were.

 

After a, frankly undeserved, dressing down by my director that lasted six straight hours. And did I mention that every time he sees me he decides to add an addendum onto his rant? I was banished from my beloved homeland and sent to wander the wilds of France.

 

This would, under other circumstances, be a most welcome chance to reminisce about my man-bear and the glory of our first meeting. But not this time! Oh, no this time I was stuck working with the recruits so new they squeaked when they moved. Recruits who had just finished their time in military service and, as such, could not stop yelling. Or referring to me as ‘Sir’ with tears in their eyes and whilst appearing to piss themselves.

 

There is no _crying_ in Mossad! What the actual fuck?

 

It was _most_ vexing, my friends. Truly, deeply, actually vexing.

 

Assam, if you do not step away from that computer and go _back to your workstation_ I will be forced to take drastic action! I mean it! Away foul minion!!

 

As I was saying…

 

I arrived in Nice to a most beautiful of sunny days after having spent over three hours stuck in _economy_ next to a ghastly mother of seven whose youngest red headed demon child spent the entire flight wailing at the top of her lungs.

 

Wailing, my friends. Like a demon banshee straight from the horror movies of old. Truly, I was tormented.

 

My only solace was to imagine a series of unfortunate accidents befalling the family of demons. By the time the flight landed and we disembarked from the plane, I had come up with three hundred sixty-four different “events.”

 

Perhaps my silver man-bear would be willing to take a short trip with me? We could bond over our love of peace and quiet. And compare blood removal techniques.

 

_Sigh_

 

A man can dream, at any rate.

 

Because I was being unfairly punished for the stupidity of my genetic failures, I was not even given appropriate accommodations. My lodging was inferior and quite small. And to make matters worse, the walls were so paper thin that I was stuck listening to my neighbors fucking the entire night…Every. Night. For the entire duration of my time in Nice.

 

That is twelve days of bed thumping, fake moaning, grunting, noisy sleep interruption.

 

Who in their right mind decides to spend their honeymoon in Nice in the cheapest motel available? The place could not have been more shady, my friends. You had to pay, in advance, _by the hour_ for sanity’s sake!

 

By. The. Hour.

 

How is that an intelligent decision? Were they _trying_ to get murdered in their sleep?

 

They could not have been looking for anything down the other’s throat. And they must have been exhausted from all their exercise. I do not believe the orgasms exhausted them. I would be hard pressed to believe the female even _had_ an orgasms, to be honest. (One only hears moaning and screeching that enthusiastic in porn. And we all know that porn is not realistic.) I do not think they were exhausted by exertion as they did not seem to be overly athletic. And they made the exact same sounds night after night. In the exact same place with the same frequency and duration…You are getting my point, yes?

 

So I am left to believe that they were attempting to either set a record for sheer number of male orgasms achieved in a twelve day period. They certainly were not trying to set any other records.

 

I almost felt pity for the female. While it was quite obvious that her male companion was getting off on the regular, it was also obvious that she was _not_. (I had a passing thought to send one of my agents over to rectify the situation…but that would have been a reward. And I do not reward cry babies.)

 

This made my baby agents uncomfortable.

 

Which should, quite frankly, be an oxymoron all by itself. Whom gets through Mossad’s training and still cannot listen to fucking without blushing? Were they not trained in the best, most effective ways to pleasure both man and woman? Were they not taught all of the most efficient ways to kill and dispose of remains?

 

_Of fucking course they were!_

 

And yet, my friends, the blushing and the stammering they started _never_ stopped.

 

Even the Idiot Twins stopped blushing by the time their training was finished. Granted, it took them both eighteen different trainers and Ziva never managed to get satisfactory range scores…but they did actually _complete_ the required training.

 

That such a pair could accomplish such a feat when the best and the brightest that Mossad has to offer were unable to do so…I fear for my homeland. I fear for my Mossad.

 

Had I been more rested or in a better frame of mind, I would have used the experience as a training exercise.

 

Alright, fine. _Fine!_

 

Yes, I was so annoyed with the Babies that I did, in point of fact, cave and turn the experience into a training exercise.

 

One must take one’s amusements where one can when one finds them, after all.

 

So we setup additional surveillance equipment in the Suite of Perpetual Fucking and the Babies waited for training to begin.

 

I had Babies 1 and 2 get the equipment setup while Babies 3, 4, 5 and 6 were sent after suitable refreshments. Baby 7 was sent out after additional seating. There is no reason to be uncomfortable whilst one trains, after all.

 

Once everything was setup to my exact specifications we were ready to begin.

 

The stage was set. We just had to wait for the players.

 

After all the Babies were seated appropriately, could see the screens, and had their refreshments of choice…The lights were turned off and I began their training.

 

We watched over forty hours of fucking from eleven different angles.

 

It was excruciating.

 

The Babies were enlightened.

 

I designed a point system to illustrate the points I was trying to make to them. Points were doled out for orgasm duration, orgasm quality, the length of time spent fucking, stamina of participants—both separately and together, and if condoms were used. Points were deducted for broken condoms, if only one partner orgasmed—usually the male, if the female seemed bored, and for the amount of sweat generated.

 

Needless to say, by the time the entire forty hours were over the male was in the negative on the point front. The female broke even at _zero_. And the Babies no longer blushed, stammered, _cried_ —for the love of Sanity!—or pissed themselves.

 

I can honestly say that by the times I was done training the Babies on seduction and fucking techniques they were ready for the world. My faith in Mossad’s future—and the future of my homeland—was, at least momentarily, restored.

 

Then we got down to business and I gave the Babies the opportunity to utilize what they had learned with out _actual_ Mossad assignment.

 

It was _glorious_ , my friends. Truly, deeply, honestly glorious.

 

Ass was kicked. Names were taken. Bodies were dumped. Alcohol was consumed.

 

A good time was had by all.

 

I can only believe that the Director was hoping that I would take these Babies under my wing and complete their training. Why else would such innocents have been sent with me for such a mission?

 

This is what I spent my Saint Patrick’s Day doing.

 

Is it any wonder that I take such pride in my work?

 

 

— — — —

 

March 21, 2002

I Do Not Even Know

 

 

Shalom my friends. This time, I do not even know what to tell you.

 

_Truly_.

 

And this time I cannot even say that it started with my idiot children. (Thank all the gods and their relatives.) Both of the Idiots have been quietly doing their duty lately. And yes, I realize this means that they’re due for a fuckup of truly Epic proportions…but I live in hope.

 

In any case, they were not the cause of today’s strangeness. _I know, I am frightened as well._

 

It seems that my actions on my last field mission were, indeed, noticed by my director. He was speechless with his awe. He stared, open mouthed, at me for over an _hour_ when we returned to Mossad headquarters. I do not think he quite knew what to do with me _or_ my success.

 

Yes, I truly knocked that one out of the ballpark, to quote the Americans.

 

And I was quite ready to receive my due. Indeed, the entirety of headquarters were speechless with awe. Several impressionable nay-sayers fainted in my wake. It was quite the ego boost…And also _quite annoying_.

 

I mean, honestly. Does no one have the fortitude to do their duty anymore?

 

What are they _teaching_ at the Mossad bootcamps anymore?

 

I can only shake my head in frustrated incomprehension, my friends. Truly, today’s training is not what it used to be.

 

That shall be the first thing I change when I become Director.

 

Oh, yes. I have not yet even begun to explain the crazy.

 

After the Hour of Confused-Fish-Face from the Director, I went about my day in peace and relative quiet.

 

It was _glorious_ , I do not deny it.

 

In any event, later that day the Director and I were called into a meeting. It seems that the deputy head of Interpol wanted a meeting. Probably to beg for our assistance. Interpol is so _plebeian_ and uncouth. They lack the skill, motivation, and resources of my beloved Mossad.

 

But we attended the meeting. Or at least we attempted to.

 

We arrived early to the meeting and were shown to the appropriate room. Our security detail swept the building for explosives and other nasty surprises. Of course, they found some small ordinance and dealt with it. Mossad is nothing if not thorough.

 

We had just sat down and were served chilled, bottled, filtered spring water—only the best for Mossad—when the deputy from Interpol arrived. He was _five minutes late_. The man was a barbarian. Such poor social skills. And rude to boot.

 

_Sigh_

 

The deputy—I cannot recall his name—grabbed his own bottled water and the negotiations began.

 

It was back and forth for over an hour. Interpol was trying to weasel information out of Mossad without even _attempting_ to offer appropriate compensation. _Nothing_ is for free, you know. And they did not even make an attempt to offer anything for our hard won intel. It was insulting.

 

I told that stupid goat-fucker _exactly_ what I thought of him. It was most pleasing, to be honest.

 

In any event, the Interpol deputy turned to my Director and was all but clutching his pearls in offense. As if the idiot could do anything. You cannot see it but I am rolling my eyes.

 

_Honestly._

 

So my Director turns to me and opens his mouth to speak when he started making the most horrible whining noises. I, of course, turned to the Interpol man to demand he send for a doctor when the Interpol man started doing the _same fucking thing_. It was annoying and ear piercing.

 

Rude, the both of them.

 

I went to the door and called for a medic. When I returned to the table, both men were on the floor convulsing. The _drama_ was just unseemly. Truly.

 

By the time a medic arrived, both men had foamed at the mouth and died.

 

And so Interpol must now find a new deputy head and Mossad needs a new Director.

 

Of course, we all _know_ whom that new Director shall be. Do we not?

 

I have already written my acceptance speech. And made a list of all of the changes I intend to make.

 

There shall be no _weakness_ in my Mossad.

 

Mark my words, my friends, this shall be a day to remember. A day for the history books.

 

I was not even required to dispose of the baboon who was Director before me. I owe the culprit a drink.

 

And then a bullet to the brain.

 

No one kills a Mossad agent and gets away with it.

 

We have a reputation to maintain. _Honestly._


	9. You Didn't See This Coming...

April 1, 2002

Do Not Even _Say_ It

 

Shalom my darlings.

I have nothing about which to complain. Truly my life is _almost_ perfect.

The only thing in my life which is less than acceptable is the lack of my man-bear and his beautiful, large, most glorious cock. If only I had my darling and could spend a few days having _all_ the orgasms, then my life would be complete. _Sigh_

Okay, yes in a perfect world, I would not be saddled with such idiot children. They would be gone. _Poof_. Problems solved.

But, in lieu of such perfection, I would settle for having my man-bear and his dick at hand. Or _in my hand_. And when I say “settle” I mean to say thrilled—as in I would be thrilled to have my man-bear close. Which is to say, close enough to be giving him the ride of his life. _I have plans for that most beautiful of cocks._ My silver headed, large-dick-having beloved would complete me. _And then I would complete him—at length, in multiple positions._

_Sigh_

And now I have depressed myself. This cannot be allowed to stand.

But I digress…

I have _News_ , my darlings. Oh yes, _news_.

I have _officially_ been _Director_ for eleven days.

Yes, you have read that correctly. _Eleven beautiful days_.

After the most unfortunate death of my predecessor last month, I humbly stepped into the breach to fill the void left by the bastard’s passing. And I was not even required to implement one of my plans for…handling my idiotic predecessor. Fate, it seems, took matters into her own hands. Is life not glorious?

And oh, what an eleven days I have had.

I tell you, my friends, there is _nothing_ better than being King. I am now in my rightful place, right where I belong. And I tell you, my friends, it is _glorious_.

I have begun making the changes my beloved Mossad has been in dire need of. The changes that I have spent a decade--yes, an _entire decade_ trying to implement. Persistance is one of my better qualities. Along with dedication, determination, and _vision_.

Do not believe what the plebeian idiots tell you, my dears, it is not _discretion_ that is the better part of valor. Oh no, it is fanatical persistence. The more persistent you are—the more you can achieve. And a life is measured by its achievements.

Do not let your life be measured in shitty diapers, atrocious coffee, or _debt_. No! Stand up for yourselves! Accomplish those goals that society would tell you are impossible. Rub your success in the faces of all the haters! This will bring you joy and fulfillment.

You can trust me, my sweet friends. I know what I am talking about.

But I digress…

After the trial run of training those most unfortunate recruits whilst I was in Nice, I realized that my techniques had already been proven as effective. I even used those self-same recruits as examples of the effectiveness of my methods. I cannot lie, it was _most_ satisfying.

If you will recall, I implemented live demonstrations on surveillance, counter-surveillance, how to tail someone—and my personal favorites, how to tell if your partner is faking it, how _not_ to use your dick, pleasure is not optional for optimal results, and seduction for the fumbling beginner.

You will recall that my training paid off in spades. The recruits went from fumbling, blushing morons into hardened, sexual masters. Indeed, credit goes not only to my unorthodox teaching technique but to the fun that was had by all…Well, not the poor, most unfortunate woman whom was faking her way through seven—count them _seven_ —days of mediocre sex. But the recruits had fun. I had fun. And they learned how seduction and sexual performance should have always been graded by my most beloved Mossad.

In the time since that excursion, I have considered holding a seminar and teaching multiple recruits the same lessons. (It cannot be so hard to find people fucking. I _know_ it is not so hard to find people fucking mediocrely.) But time did not allow for such an indulgence. And, in a most vexing turn of events, my requests for such were repeatedly _denied_.

The idiot who proceeded me lacked vision on top of common sense. _Honestly._

And so my first order of business was to require all recruits from the last five years to return to the academy for assessment. Then I took myself over to the academy and evaluated all of the instructors and their courses. Some were more tedious than others, I readily admit. But the seduction and sex courses were just pitiful.

I realize that the instructors can get tired, but that is not an acceptable reason for poor performance! Mossad has _standards_ and many of these _lackadaisical_ instructors were _not meeting those standards_. I was even required to give multiple demonstrations. For Science.

_Ahem_

In any event, after both the instructors _and_ the students had been evaluated, it was time to implement the changes. And so I laid down the law, to quote my beloved’s Americanisms. I did stay to ensure that all changes were being implemented to my standards. And once I was sure that the changes would stick, I went back to my new office to continue to implement my desired changes.

I must interrupt myself here, my friends, for during this time I had the most divine opportunity. My man-bear was once responsible for training agents—a true waste of his talent, but there you go. And I happened to run into such a past trainee. One Jennifer Shepard to be more precise. And, while she is perhaps in some circles to be considered passably attractive—not my standards, I assure you—she just happens to be rabidly obsessed with her father’s suicide.

Under normal circumstances, I would not lower myself to such a degree as to sully my pristine personage with the association with such a woman. That is perhaps inaccurate, I would not sully my most pristine personage with _any_ person whom is so low as Jennifer. But! But I am savvy enough to recognize opportunities when I see them. And so, I began my campaign to get on Jennifer’s good side. (Not that she actually has one, but the saying is accurate enough)

It did, unfortunately, require sex. But I have been in the business long enough that undesirable partners do not effect my performance. And, if I may say so myself, I rocked that little bitch’s world.

You cannot see my smirk, my friends but I am smirking most profoundly.

I digress…

I admit that I had prior knowledge from an informant, who shall remain nameless, that Jennifer was on the short list to replace the current director of NCIS—on Tom Morrow. And so seducing Jennifer had quite the fringe benefits.

Jennifer proposed a plan—and I agreed to indulge her, though I do not yet believe in the efficacy of such a plan. She agreed to create a place for my Ziva in her agency in exchange for my assistance with catching the Frog.

And really, let us just take a moment to discuss this _frog_. Who in their right, active mind would _choose_ to label themselves as such a slimy amphibian? The Frog? Really? I mean, yes, he is French, but why should that so negatively impact his intelligence? He lacks flair. He lacks style. I would not be surprised if the baboon dresses in _green_ frequently. What sort of a man, what sort of arms dealer, names _themselves_ the Frog?! It is beyond the ability of my most debonair, vigorous mind to contemplate.

Back to the plan…

And so, I agreed to her plans. She will get my Ziva into her agency and access to intelligence that would be of interest to me and I give her intelligence on her _frog_.

It is such a good day to be me.


	10. Poor Stupid Jennifer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jilly James for the name for Eli's followers. I may have cackled like a hyena when I saw it. It's perfect. You're awesome. Thank you! <3
> 
> On a completely different note: Every time I write, "I digress," I think of that episode of Stargate Atlantis. The one where Rodney is recording his "if I die" video and keeps going, "But I digress…back to…leadership." You've incepted me, Rodney. It's all your fault.

April 5, 2002

Just Another Day

 

 

Today was just like any other day, my friends. I went through my morning routine, went to work, ordered some hits, killed some idiots, and generally had a pleasant day.

My minions—you would call them agents—are settling into my regime quite nicely if I do say so myself. The changes that I have implemented are taking well. Dissenters and haters have been identified and dealt with swiftly. 

It was perhaps not the most exciting day I have ever had, but it was pleasant all the same. There is always that sense of satisfaction when one ruthlessly slays one's enemies—bathing in their blood and watching the inferior life leave their common eyes. It can be so fulfilling, my friends, truly.

I have just had an idea, my friends. And, oh, what a lovely idea it is. Why, such joy, such  _satisfaction_  should be  _shared_ . I will host a training seminar for specially selected—superior—agents. We will choose a target from our list of enemies, hunt them down like the vermin they are, and bathe in their blood and screams. Why this is a  _most excellent_  plan. I thank you for assisting me in creating such a worthy, entertaining endeavor. I am sure that my agents would also express their thanks if they knew of you. 

Well, I am off to plan a seminar. Until next time, my Emotians!

 

— — — —

April 9, 2002

What Will They Think of Next?

 

This is the  _fourth_  time in a week that Jennifer has demanded attendance. 

Four times! In  _seven_  days! 

 _She_  may not have work to do, but I assure you, my Emotians, that I  _do_. I have an entire agency to run! I have peons to ride herd on. Meetings to attend. Seminars to run. I am booked solid. I do not have the time to be always flying to Britain to fuck a cold, plastic hole. 

Yes, Jennifer is a good source of intel on what my American counterparts are doing in my Middle East. But fucking her is genuinely trying, my Emotians. She is a stingy lover, unimaginative in bed, and fucks like a wet fish. Do not even get me started on her sheer lack of participation. If I could not see her breathing, I would think that she was one of those sex dolls the Americans are so fond of. At least with the dolls, I would know where it had been. There is no telling what or  _where_  Jennifer's cunt-cake has been. I shudder to think of this.

But I am a consummate professional. I have been trained by the best  _and_  trained  _the_  best. I can fuck anyone. I can perform under the most trying of circumstances. I once fucked Leon Vance through a blizzard, for eight straight days.

Granted, food and sleep were involved. But I did it. He was sufficiently distracted and never noticed his mission had been compromised, and his objective made obsolete.

All because of my dedication. My attention to detail. My superb fucking.

I speak in all modesty, my Emotians. I have been told, on  _numerous_  occasions, no less, that I was the best fuck someone had ever had. 

They were  _right_ , of course. I am, indeed, a superior lay. Truly, you would be hard-pressed to find a better orgasm friend. Quality  _and_  quantity, my Emotians.  _Quality as well as quantity_ —do not forget this. It will serve you well.

In any event…

So you can see how the loss of audience participation, or even just participation in general, would be most challenging to take. I am convinced that what Jennifer really wants is a woman to fuck—she seems quite ambivalent about cock. 

And  _my_  cock is a superior specimen. The only other cock worthy of being hailed with my own perfection is the cock of my most beloved man-bear. Only my beauty can possibly compare mano-a-mano, man to man, cock to cock…you understand.

I shall have to do some  _research_  to determine if Jennifer is truly just a lesbian in denial. 

It would solve many problems to just throw my Ziva at her and be done with it. 

Until next time.

 

— — — —

April 12, 2002

That Poor Woman

 

Hello, my Emotians! And a most happy evening to you.

I have concluded my research into Jennifer and her most lackluster performance. And it is as I suspected. She has been in the closet regarding her lesbianism. Is lesbianism even a word?

It is now. I have decided it and so shall it be.

But I digress…

I am torn, my friends, between being amused and being vexed. On the one hand, this resolves my problem of being forced to fuck her diseased cunt. On the other hand, I can only conclude that she came to me for sex in the hopes of getting into my Ziva's pants.

Why she would feel the need to bother is beyond me.

She had only need ask, and I would have given her Ziva. 

On second thought, I have had a better idea. Oh, my Emotians, what a plan I have just had. Sometimes I surprise even myself with my own genius.

This will take some careful maneuvering and some not inconsiderable patience. But I believe the payoff will be most worth it.

I shall slowly work Jennifer into getting into bed with my Ziva. But for their relationship, such as it will be—Ziva is  _notoriously_  incapable of anything resembling an actual relationship—to progress, my Ziva will need to be working and living close to Jennifer. 

I know Jennifer has her sights set on being director of NCIS. I need only wait for her to achieve this, and I shall have an insertion point for getting intel firsthand. 

Indeed, my Emotians, I impress even myself sometimes.

I am off! I must begin laying the groundwork for my most  _glorious_  plan. Adieu! 

 

— — — —

April 17, 2002

Presents

 

Shalom, my sweet Emotians! 

I have had a busy week, my friends, let me tell you. 

I was doing some traveling, mind my own business,  _taking care of business_ , and generally being amazing and competent when what should I see? But a fool who has escaped custody from my man-bear. 

I know this particular escape has vexed him exceedingly. But what can my sweet love expect when his Anthony is out sick, and he is forced to work with subpar specimens? I believe his NCIS refers to them as TAD agents. Something about a temporary assignment or something of the like.

But I digress…

My beloved was working with some barely trained, easily cowed  _temporary_  agent. All because his Anthony was out sick. Clearly, Anthony needs to take better care of himself. I shall have to remedy this situation. I am  _most displeased_!

I shall send him several little things to help boost his immune system. I suppose I will  _also_  have to make sure that he keeps stocked on them. It would not do for this situation to repeat itself. Anthony is a lovely boy, he just needs to take better care of himself.

Though I  _do_  approve of his sartorial choices. Anthony evidently believes in dressing to impress. Brioni does truly  _amazing_  things to his ass, I cannot lie. And Boglioli! Boglioli brings out the color of his eyes and cups his cock in the most  _exciting_  ways. If I were younger, and my man-bear did not exist, I would be sorely tempted by Anthony—especially when he is wearing a good suit.

It is as I have always been saying when one  _looks_  good, one  _feels_  good. Nothing does more for a man's confidence than a good suit. 

Hmmm. Orgasms help too. 

Very well, nothing does more for a man's confidence than orgasms  _and_  a good suit.

Orgasms, like milk, do a body good. And your mind. 

You know, I have had some of my clearest ideas after a good orgasm. Strange, I know, and yet—a good orgasm will clear the mind and allow for deeper, clearer thoughts. There is no better time to plan our your latest hunt than when whatever orgasm friend you are currently entertaining is panting for breath beside you, too fucked out to even speak. It is the perfect environment for clarity of thought. 

Of course, if you happen to have been fucking your target, this also provides the perfect opportunity to dispose of them. Though, I would caution you to wait at least until the afterglow is finished. There is no reason whatsoever to ruin your own reward. Do not short change yourself, my Emotians, there is just no reason for you to suffer needlessly.

If you genuinely desire to suffer, merely let me know. I am always happy to assist—either by pointing you towards a good dungeon or spanking you myself. 

You see? I am truly magnanimous. 

And no, I will not allow anyone to spank  _me_ . That is a pleasure that I shall save for my man-bear exclusively. After all, when one has had the very absolute best that can be offered…nothing less shall do. And my man-bear has the most  _glorious_  hands. I positively shiver in delight.

Until next time, my Emotians!

 

 

— — — —

April 20, 2002

I Deserve a Sainthood

 

It is 0400 where I am right now, and I must admit, it has been a  _most_  trying day.

For those of you plebeian enough to not recognize the most superior form of military time…I have nothing at all to say. Go forth! Educate yourself! Ignorance is truly unacceptable, my Emotians. I simply will  _not_  have it.

As I was saying…

My soul shivers in remembered horror. Just thinking about my day is enough to reduce a lesser man to tears. Or, dare I say it, histrionics. 

But I am not a lesser man.

Though I would not be opposed to indulging in some— _much deserved_ —histrionics. That is a thought. I shall have to consider it. Of course, anyone who were to  _witness_  such a display would have to be dealt with.

In any event…back to my pain.

I spent several weeks meticulously arranging my schedule so that I would be available to travel to the United States. Specifically, to Virginia so that I might happen upon my beloved. My silvery man-bear with his strong, calloused hands and his tight ass. The most beautiful cocks—truly, my man-bear possesses a cock that is a work of  _art_ , I wholeheartedly believe that my beloved is whom Michaelangelo imagined when he sculpted David. 

My beloved is truly a work of art. From his silvery, silky hair all the way to his soft, lily-white feet.

And so, I was in Virginia so that I could visit with my beloved. I had everything sorted out. I had a  _plan_ . Every detail had been accounted for and meticulously planned to the  _minute_.

And then  _Jennifer_  happened. 

Yes, my Emotians, Jennifer Sheppard happened. She traipsed into my hotel room and demanded.

Yes,  _demanded_  that I provide her with dinner and  _entertainment_. 

Who does this woman think she is?! And, to make matters  _worse_ , she had made sure that my beloved, my darling man-bear was  _in fucking Germany_  whilst I was there. 

Yes, she claimed it was so that we could "hook up" under the radar. (Honestly, Americanisms are terribly tacky. No flair. No style. Ugh.) 

I will admit, my response was some of my best work. 

She claimed she had a headache and wanted me to "fix it," of all the inane things. You cannot see it, but I am rolling my eyes.  _Honestly_.

And so I was solicitous, I offered her some aspirin to relieve her pain. Chivalry is not dead, after all. And, of course, she accepted. 

So I gave the bitch Ambien, and to make  _sure_  it worked, I crushed two pills and mixed them into her mojito. I have it on good authority that mixing Ambien into alcohol…shall we say makes it more  _effective_? Yes, let us go with that.  

Yes, I am, indeed, a genius. I dealt with the problem swiftly, efficiently, and with deadly precision. I would have liked to have dealt with the problem with deadly  _anything_  so long as it led to deadness…but, alas, Jennifer's use to me is not quite at its end.

Thank whatever deity you happen to believe in today, Jennifer, for you are still breathing. It was not out of the goodness of my heart—my heart belongs to my man-bear, and you are but a small speed bump on the road to our eternal, everlasting happiness.

I was then able to enjoy a nice, quiet evening of three-star Michelin rated food, excellent wine, and a pleasant dining atmosphere. Once I was done dining, I decided that I would attend the theater and saw a lovely production of The Crucible. 

All in all, it was a most fantastic evening. Though I was not able to fuck my man-bear's brains out. Nor have my own brains fucked out by my man-bear. And there was no cock sucking happening. 

I was denied orgasms. Orgasms did not happen, my Emotians.

I am  _not_  pouting.  _You're_  pouting.

I am pouting a  _little_  bit. But you would be pouting too if you had been thwarted from an amorous rendezvous with your beloved.

I will, eventually, have my revenge on Jennifer. It may not be tomorrow. And it  _certainly_  will not be today, but I  _will_  have my revenge.

Perhaps, I will force her to watch me fucking my beloved. Considering her past relationship, such as it was, with my man-bear, it seems a fitting punishment. Here, see what you can never have again. Watch me have it. Again and again and again….

 _Ahem_.

You get the idea.

And now, I feel the distinct need for orgasms. Well, my Emotians, I must now be off. So many people to fuck, so little time.

Adieu!

 

— — — —

April 21, 2002

Again With The Plebeians

 

Usually, I would say that this is a very fine evening, my Emotians. Alas! That is not the case this time. Oh, the day held  _such_  promise, to be sure. 

I spent many hours today  _interrogating_  a worm who had eluded me up to this point. Granted, I was quite busy settling into my new role, cracking the proverbial whip, etc. But still. It is a point of pride that I  _always_  get my target. 

I would say I always get my man…

But therein lies sadness. 

I know what you are thinking, my Emotians, and you are wrong.  _Wrong gods damnit!_  I have had tastes of my man-bear. I have sampled the wine of his body. I know each and every detail of my beloved  _intimately_. We are not together because I have essential, God appointed work to do. 

And my man-bear, he is chasing down those idiots foolish enough to cross him. Okay, fine! And also anyone stupid enough to  _get caught_  committing a crime against my beloved's most precious Navy or Marines. 

My man-bear would say, once a Marine always a Marine. But I tell you truly, my Emotians, that is ridiculous. Surely, the training stays with you long after your service or career end, but once you leave the military…Especially if one is America, one gets  _soft_ . They lose the wonderment of taking down your enemy with your own two hands. Of chasing them down,  _cutting_  them down like the vermin they are. 

There is truly no feeling quite like taking a knife to your opponent's guts and feeling the blood  _pour_  out of them as they gasp and scream. Watching the life leave their eyes…Knowing that you are the cause. 

I tell you truly, there is no other feeling like it.

I have taught many a seminar elbow deep inside an enemy. Truly, those classes are  _always_  the most…productive. Of course, they also always contain a hands-on component. It would not do to lecture on about the proper ways to break a man, and then break down the man's body, and not give the students an opportunity to really get their hands dirty.

Hands-on learning is truly the way to go, my Emotians. You learn faster that way. Things stay with you more than if you just were attending a lecture. There is  _such_  a marked difference between the work of a student who had the opportunity to learn hands-on and those poor fools who did not have the same opportunity.

You never forget your first screamer. Of course, there are many instances you never forget. Your first bleeder—and I mean the  _true_  bleeders, not those pathetic weasels who cry at the sight of blood, the true gushers—or the first man you successfully break. The first man (and woman) you seduced and then reduced to their component parts. 

Life and death are so closely tied together. You cannot have one without the other. You really cannot. 

And the world needs cleaners. Fixers. Those humble human beings who dedicate their lives to solving the  _delicate_  little problems of the world. Slowly, one by one, making the world—or at least their little corner of it—a safer, better place.

A better world. For those who deserve it, at any rate.

Ah, but I have digressed from my point. I  _did_  have a point, my Emotians.

I have been stuck at this little… _soireé_ . It was not initially part of my itinerary for the evening. As I have stated, I had blocked out my evening to devote  _quality_  time to my interrogation of—hmmm, we shall call him Robert, it is as good a name as any—Robert. 

I was elbow deep inside his rib cage when who should interrupt me but my idiot daughter, Ziva. Apparently, she had managed to procure some invite to some "exclusive" party, and I was to attend. Or something to that effect. I confess that I was not really paying attention. And my Ziva  _does_  tend to prattle on when she has done something wrong. It is a most  _obvious_  tell. I have tried breaking her of the habit, my Emotians, truly I have. But short of electroshock therapy—which provides inconclusive results—my lovely hands are tied.

You will simply have to bear this trial with me. How  _utterly_  unfortunate.

In any event, I was shortly cutting my time short—and thereby, the time of my side project was also cut short—rushing to get myself clean via a brief shower, one must always be fit for company if possible, and leaving the black site.

And yes, my Emotians, I have my own dedicated black site. The American CIA have the right idea on that front. Though, their execution leaves something to be desired, to be sure.

In any event, I was rushed home to prepare to attend this insipid, inane little gathering. And I tell you, while I thrive on cunning and wit, I find politics to be  _so_  droll. It is always the same with these politicians. The same complaints. The same desires. 

Always the same.

It was a most atrocious evening, my Emotians. Stuck listening to the plebeians bleat and whine. I bore it, my Emotians, but I may never be the same again.

I must confess that through the torture of the evening, I did manage to come across something worth my while. (Thankfully, Jennifer was nowhere to be seen. Praise any god that may be listening.) It seems that a young American politician has her sights set on a more  _prestigious_  position. A young Sarah Porter. 

I confess young Sarah has quite a bit of talent with her tongue. It has been many years since I have encountered someone with such skill and enthusiasm. Though she was most unfortunately loud—I believe the Americans refer to such things as a "screamer"—and had to be choked. As far as clandestine fucking goes, it was a superior encounter. 

10 of 10 will most  _definitely_  fuck again, as they say.

So my evening was not  _entirely_  wasted. I suppose I traded one satisfaction for another. 

Have I mentioned how a good orgasm does fantastic things for one?

In any event, I now have a  _useful_  little friend in the American political arena. All in all, not a terrible outcome.

It is challenging to be me, my Emotians. 

A good man's work is just  _never_  done. Though Sarah was most  _thoroughly_  done. I shall have to pay her a visit…

 


	11. Yankee White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has my man-bear done *now*?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that Eli's theme song, should he ever admit to having such a plebeian thing, is Bad Things by Jace Everett. A link to which you can find here: https://youtu.be/pPVhhuyjrIg
> 
> Seriously, have a quick listen to it. I can completely imagine Eli listening to this song and being all "why yes, this sums up my feelings on my man-bear quite adequately." 
> 
> Ignore the True Blood mentions in the link. I had no idea this song was used in the theme song for the show. (As I’ve never actually watched True Blood.) 
> 
> And yes, I totally went there. I can make Hannibal a contemporary of Eli if I want to. XD
> 
> Also, okay kiddos, time to clench up. Herein lies the beginning of Season 1. Yes, that's right. We are now to Yankee White. Let me tell you, Eli has a lot to say. Omg. (I'm not even sorry)
> 
> You're welcome. :)

April 23, 2003

Yankee White

 

Today began like any other day, my Emotians.

While this may  _seem_  like an innocuous statement, I assure you—it is anything but.

I had my usual coffee this morning. It was quite delicious. I do not know if I ever told you this, my Emotians, but I became  _quite_  enamored with Turkish coffee. It is a  _most_  glorious drink—thick, rich, dark like my soul. 

_Ahem._

I could not resist. :)

I always give myself an uninterrupted thirty minutes to enjoy my morning coffee. Such a work of art is deserving of nothing less, after all. We shall ignore that I had to send out a memo to my minions at my beloved Mossad…and that time I had to get  _physical_  in getting my lesson across.

A man's coffee is a sacred thing, my Emotians. _Sacred_.

I always feel closer to my beloved man-bear while I have my coffee. 

_I digress, however._

My morning was quite typical. My arrival at work was even well within the normal parameters of my day. My personal assistant had everything ready and set to my standards. All agendas and meetings were adequately prepared for.

Alas, my Emotians, I could not have anticipated just what kind of day my man-bear would have. 

_Sigh_

I am convinced that my beloved _enjoys_  being surrounded by such low-class idiots. Why else would he participate in—what do the Americans call it, ah yes—a  _bromance_  with the ahem average Tobias. 

And really, what kind of a name is  _Tobias_  anyway? I cannot imagine what sort of parents the man had to end up with such a name. Clearly, the name of a man sets his course in life. After all, why try to achieve greatness when you are saddled with such a thing.  _Tobias_  honestly.

I did not  _huff_ , Levi. Shut your most  _unfortunate_  mouth before it gets you into  _more_  trouble. Yes, I know  _exactly_  what assignment you are  _supposed_  to be on right now. If you value your limbs in their current configuration, you will stop reading this and  _get back to work_.

_Honestly_. Good help should not be so hard to find. Truly, my Emotians. 

_In any event..._

My beloved man-bear is, as always, an extraordinary man. Truly, his sheer greatness knows no bounds. Word cannot describe the twisty, devious bends in his mind. Nor the exquisite beauty of his cock.  _Sigh_  

I could wax poetic on the sheer beauty of my man-bear's cock. The strength of his hands. The way those calluses feel against a most sensitive back… _Sigh._  Has ever there been such a glorious man? 

Myself excluded, of course. One cannot love oneself romantically.

Well, if the Greeks are to believed, one actually  _can_  love one's self romantically...If you believe those ridiculous stories—apologies,  _myths_. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

I must find a way to adequately convey eye-rolling via text, my Emotians. Truly.

_Back to my point..._

I am, indeed, a lucky man.

For many months now, I have been observing the _dynamic duo_ , as the Americans say, of my beloved and his loyal yet delectable partner, Anthony. They have become quite the team—which pleases me. This means that my angsty man-bear shall be taken care of while he is in the field. Which is no small feat, I do admit. But my man-bear is worth such a sacrifice. He would be bored to most unproductive tears doing anything else. 

And I would be forced to take drastic actions—which would lead to most unfortunate tears for whoever was responsible for such an atrocity.

No, his forays into craftsmanship do not count. While he does, indeed, work quite well with his hands—and oh, what large, capable, strong, beautiful hands they are—he would get quite bored doing nothing but creating all day every day. I know this because my beloved and I have this in common. We must use our vast intellects daily, or we become quite bored. And a bored man-bear is a travesty the Americans would not see coming. Perhaps on par with such illustrious, if not circumspect individuals as Jeffrey Dahmer or the Chesapeake Ripper. Both genius intellects, but rather slightly less than law-abiding, if you catch my meaning.

Though I do admit, my beloved would make a most sexy criminal. 

Perhaps this is a missed opportunity, after all.

_But I digress._

My point is that my beloved has been working most smoothly and efficiently with his most young, athletic, and eager partner. And this partnership has been quite fruitful for the American law enforcement community. After all, my man-bear has not resorted to a life of crime.  _C'est la vie_.

So when I say that I am baffled by my beloved's impulsive decision to  _change_  his modus operandi by bringing on another member—thus turning his partnership into a trio…You can understand where I am coming from. And not only did he change his MO, to quote the Americans, but he did not bother to do  _any sort of background check_  on the Woman. He did not so much as check her credit rating, for the love of Mossad. 

_My beloved must be ill_. 

I assure you, my Emotians, that I did not fail my man-bear in such a way. This  _Caitlyn_  will be quite  _thoroughly_  vetted. I will know each and every detail of her life up to and including how she managed to land a job with my most beloved man-bear. 

Was it pheromones? Feminine wiles? Did they have the sex? Was my trusting beloved beguiled by large, teary eyes and drugged?! 

_I will find this out, my Emotians, and there will be a reckoning._ You may rest assured.

For my beloved did, indeed, bring another player onto his team. A choice that, honestly, baffles me. I admit Caitlyn is, perhaps, attractive. If shrill, condescending, sanctimonious females excite you... If you squint and tilt your head and you have some sort of visual disorder that leads to blindness... If you are deaf to the sound of her voice—indeed, nails on chalkboards are a more pleasant sound than this _Caitlyn's_  voice. But my beloved is at the top of his game. He is quick, efficient, and expects the best from his coworkers. 

Which makes his choice of Caitlyn even more baffling.

Young Caitlyn has no applicable skills for my beloved to capitalize on. 

Well, I say _no_  skills, but what I mean is no skills my beloved would  _actually utilize_. 

My man-bear is quite vexing in his decision not to send his teammates out for seduction missions—I believe the plebeians call them  _honey traps_. Caitlyn would, perhaps, be capable of seducing a mark. If she does not speak and takes care to drug the target first, of course. 

She certainly has demonstrated that she has no qualms about fucking her coworkers. A situation, I believe, that is most assuredly frowned upon by her former employer the American Secret Service. It is even against my man-bear's moral code—his _rules_. I am baffled. I am confused. 

I am most distressingly frustrated.

Upon reflection, this might be why she decided to quit. After all, it looks better upon one's resume when one quits a job as opposed to being fired for misconduct. Such a black mark would make her even more—what is the phrase?— _damaged goods_.

_Disappointing. Very disappointing._

I must also say that young Caitlyn is quite unpleasantly arrogant. Yes, I realize that this is a shock to hear, especially from myself, but do refrain from clutching your pearls. It is quite unbecoming.

_As I was saying_ …

_Deserved_  arrogance is not unattractive nor misplaced when one has proven one's capabilities. It is not arrogance to be proud of one's accomplishments nor to be the best. That is just skill and determination. I am such an example. My skills and achievements are quite renowned within my beloved Israel, my  _most_  beloved Mossad, and even the international intelligence community as a whole. 

_Everyone wants a piece of the Eli._  :)

None of which this Caitlyn seems to have.

Oh, she has the arrogance entirely down. As evidenced by her willingness to attempt to put herself on the same level as her boss—a most disgusting habit. Were she part of my Mossad, she would be quite… _displeased_  by her punishment. I would still put her to work; of course, it does not do to remove the expendables. But she would be enormously uncomfortable  _at a minimum_. Groveling would be in her future. And much pain besides. But she has shown no evidence that such belief in her own superiority is warranted - a truly foolish child.

Unless, of course, she believes she is superior because she is a superior fuck. Or because she was able to hide her fucking from her superiors. 

I just laughed harder than I have in months, my Emotians. I was even required to wipe away tears; such was the strength and force of my laugher.

I will say that Caitlyn has decent taste in men. Her Commander was quite pretty—for a boy scout with a large pole of wood lodged up his ass. Though I doubt he had much stamina. He did seem the type to be quite the easy lay. And, perhaps even worse, unimaginative and entirely passive in bed. Nothing is worse than an uninspired and lazy orgasm buddy, my Emotians. One can endure quite a lot, but _that_  is beyond the pale. Though he did not seem adventurous enough to have ever even met his prostate—more is the pity. Perhaps he would have been a more interesting man had he been introduced to his prostate…Frequently and at length. 

_Sigh_

The Commander was prone to such melodrama, however. I mean, look at the sheer  _mess_  he made while he died. No thought to his surroundings. No care for his compatriots. No respect for those better than himself. Clearly, the man was overly dramatic. Is a quiet death too much to ask for any more?  _Is it_?

_Clearly._

I must say that my man-bear's habit of leaving his food and beverages near his hobbies is quite unseemly. Not to mention  _unsanitary_. He  _does not even clean the glasses_  before he uses them. What if he ingests rust? Or bits of metal? What if he were to get wood shavings or,  _shudder_ , something more foul into his noms? What then? Oh, he would pick the offending non-edibles out of his noms to be sure. 

But his _hands would not be clean_! And, would that  _really_  remove the nasty toxins from his food or beverage? What if  _he swallowed wood_  from his craft?! What then?!

If my man-bear is so determined to swallow some wood, I have some superior wood he is quite encouraged to swallow…

I am sure my beloved man-bear is quite superior in all things—swallowing included.

_I have given myself goosebumps._

If my beloved and I were not so in love. And if we were not so exclusive. I do believe we would quite happily take young Anthony for a ride he would not soon forget. Young Anthony would never forget such a vigorous performance by my beloved. The force of his thrusts...The gravelly quality of his voice. _I tell you truly no one matches my man-bear at orgasms._

But we are entirely in love and also  _quite_  exclusive. My apologies, Anthony, but this ride is closed to you. 

It was quite amusing to see my beloved's face in the American airport. That TSA agent and his sheer cluelessness regarding his own country's law enforcement was both hilarious and vexing. My poor man-bear was denied the recognition he so rightly deserves. One can only be horrified that such an individual works at such a critical position. Does  _no one_  vet their applicants anymore?  _What is the world coming to?!_

And that Doctor Duck-Man took things quite a bit too far—ordering my man-bear around as though he was some kind of  _a newbie_. As though he were fit to even stand in the presence of my beloved. My man-bear has been involved in law enforcement community for many years. He has captured a long and prolific list of prey during his tenure. Such a predator is to be venerated and treated with the respect he is due. 

I feel that the situation bears retaliation. This Duck-Man must know that his _shenanigans_  will not be tolerated. It is one thing to be so crass as to treat young Anthony as his bellboy but to treat my man-bear in such a way? It does not bear tolerating.

Retribution shall be swift, Duck-Man. _You have been warned._

Though, it was quite clever of my beloved to behave as if he were only an assistant to the Duck-Man. Do you see what I have been saying? My man-bear is always thinking two steps ahead. His mind is complicated and devious—oh, it gives me _shivers_. To be the sole focus of such a man…There is nothing else quite like it.

Though, I admit to being puzzled. Did this Fornell man not have the sheer misfortune and terrible taste to marry one of my beloved's ex-wives? How then did this Tobias _not recognize_  my beloved upon his entrance to the plane? He could not have been so busy measuring his dick against that Kansas medical examiner, nor the obviously female Caitlyn—who does not have a dick, metaphorical or otherwise.

I mean, Tobias even stared at my beloved's face for the love of Mossad! They made  _eye contact_  for  _at least_  thirty seconds. Am I to believe that he did not recognize my beloved? Or am I supposed to believe that he was participating in my beloved's most amusing deception?

But if he was participating in the deception, then why was he so furious later on? I do not believe his angsty fury was affected. You could see his fury in his beady little eyes. 

_I confess that I do not believe Tobias has the skills to act nor to think of such a deception._

Back to this Caitlyn, though. My man-bear even asked her point-blank if she had ever worked a crime scene, and the Woman was forced to admit she had not. Why then would my beloved employ her on his own team? She held my man-bear back during the investigation, and I do not believe such will be a one-time occurrence. She will be more hindrance than a help.

My beloved deserves to be praised and applauded for his work ethic, quick thinking, and his solve rate. This  _Caitlyn_  will only reduce my beloved's most superior solve rate. Thus, taking away praise he so rightly deserves. If my beloved and his Anthony are to do the work of an entire team and carry around such dead weight, then why have this Caitlyn character on the team at all? Why not excise the deadweight before it becomes a lead weight 'round his delicious neck?

_It is most vexing!_

Have I mentioned how utterly unimpressed I am with this Caitlyn Woman? She all but threw a temper tantrum worthy of a two-year-old child when she felt she had been "dismissed" by my beloved. I kept waiting for her to stomp her foot in her anger. This, I must admit, would have been amusing. And yet  _another_  nail in the coffin of her career. I cannot for the life of me understand my beloved's reasoning for wanting such a harpy on his team.

To be constantly bombarded with her screeching and tantrums…It is enough to make my skin crawl.

I would not hire such a one. But if I were forced to do so, I would send her back to training. Perhaps with enough fucking under her belt, she would be more tolerable.

This is why Catholics have no place in law enforcement or espionage. They are too prudish to get down to the fucking. And too fucking stupid to realize their own failures. Law enforcement is no place for a—what is the phrase?—holier than thou Quaker throwback. I admit, I too would have sent such individuals away to "colonize" a new land if only to no longer be forced to bear witness to their utter stupidity.

Poor child. I am left to believe that her liaison, brief as it was, left her orgasm _less_. Anyone denied orgasms from their orgasm partner would be shrill. Clearly, her lack of getting off coupled with her prudish, backward Catholic beliefs combined to create the Harpy that stomped and pouted along behind my beloved man-bear.

I do not deny that she had a most glorious view from behind him, of course. But I did not get the feeling that she appreciated the view to which she was privileged enough to enjoy.

Have I mentioned how utterly stupid the Harpy is?

Do not hold your breath, Caitlyn; my man-bear will not be fucking you. His cock has been claimed, and your toxic twat will not taint my beloved's most beautiful cock. I feel it is also my duty to inform you that young Anthony's cock is beyond you as well. If it is cock you are wanting, then go and hire yourself a professional. Clearly, that is the only way in which you will get satisfactorily laid.

Keep your toxic pussy away from my beloved and his surrogate son.

_Do not make me come to you in person. It will not be a lesson you will enjoy—of that I assure you._

You see, Caitlyn, your metaphorical dick was not large enough to win against my man-bear. You are outclassed on every field in which you desire to engage my beloved upon.  _As it should be_. Truly, I expected nothing less.

I am sure he has no fucks to give that he is fighting an unarmed opponent. Winning is fun, no matter who one is beating. :)

Though this is a life lesson. Remember, my Emotians, it matters not which field upon which you engage an opponent—so long as you win, it will be both fun  _and_  amusing. 

I should start a new blog,  _Life Lessons with Eli_. I have such wisdom to impart.

_I digress…_

And regarding young Anthony. I was _most_  amused by his shenanigans regarding the swimsuit model with that Caitlyn woman. Her face was, indeed, quite priceless when young Anthony was able to, with a glance, tell her the height, breast, waist, and hip measurements for the model. It was a most cathartic experience. I laughed quite loudly, I must confess.

Young Anthony's loyalty to my beloved was, once again, proven when he quite readily allowed himself to be enclosed in a body bag and loaded into Tobias' van for transport back to wherever the fuck Tobias takes bodies at his precious FBI.

Tobias did show some initiative, however briefly. Like his fast-talking with  _that Woman's_  superior. Come to think of it, that was really the  _only_  time he showed any kind of promise. The man was easily duped by my beloved. I cannot determine if that speaks to my man-bear's skill at deception or the gullibility of the Idiot…

_Let us go with the much more pleasant option of it speaking to my beloved's skill at deception._

Though I was  _most_  vexed by his mistreatment of young Anthony. If he has such an overwhelming desire to kill young Anthony, he should be man enough to just get on with it already. His passive-aggressive attempt to get young Anthony hit by a car was pathetic at best. He would not survive long in Mossad; you had better believe. His trainers alone would have beaten such stupidity out of him.

A true man faces his targets head-on and takes care of business personally. Attempting to get someone else to do so for you is a terrible policy. And quite  _gauche._ You can never be sure the job will get done at all much less in a satisfactory manner. 

Assassinations, like everything else in life, must be done personally if you want them to be done correctly.

_Honestly._

With opponents such as  _that Woman_  and Tobias, it is no wonder that my man-bear stands out as much as he does in the American law enforcement community. Granted, he is also well spoken of in the international community. But my point still stands. My beloved is both fantastic and beautiful. His cock is worthy of praise. And his aim is truly spectacular. 

Did you see what I did there? His aim? You cannot see it, but I am wiggling my eyebrows right now. 

Why, my man-bear, why did you hire the Harridan? 

_ Why?! _


End file.
